


In study of a Witcher

by Wrathofscribbles



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:15:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22490044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wrathofscribbles/pseuds/Wrathofscribbles
Summary: He has the face only a mother could love.Or so they say.Jaskiersays they're all blind fools in need of a swift kick to the teeth.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 6
Kudos: 204





	In study of a Witcher

**Author's Note:**

> So I started watching the Witcher (not finished it yet, and THEN I started reading it) and. Wow. Just wow. I love it. And I love Jaskier. Someone please give this man a hug.
> 
> Mature rating is a precaution for a few sentences, the bulk of this oneshot is actually suitable for the T instead.

_He has the face only a mother could love._ Or so they say.

"He" being one Geralt of Rivia, infamous White Wolf, the Butcher of Blaviken, Witcher Extraordinaire! Also a flea-bitten mongrel, a scoundrel, a mutant. Or so they say.

"They" being the unscrupulous of the townsfolk, the fools as likely to spit in a Witcher's face as hand him honest coin for honest work. The unhappy folk with bees in their bonnets, looking for an outlet for impotent rage and disquiet with their lot in life.

Now if someone were to ask _Jaskier_ the way of it, he'd say the lot of them need a swift kick in the teeth (and perhaps their soggy collection of mouldy balls). But does anyone think to pose such a question to Jaskier? No! No they bloody well do not. No, _instead_ they pause as he strums at his beloved lute, unhappy little frowns carving across their faces as he sings of the Great Geralt. They squabble amongst themselves as he spins ballads from his heroic deeds. And as a pack of rabid dogs they attack! Food thrown, drinks upended, yowling like cats with their tails caught in a trap and, if he's had one too many drinks and misplaced one too many of his wits, they snatch at him with all the vicious tenacity of a woman thrice-scorned. Or a Warg after its pound of flesh. And if his luck has well and truly perished on such a particular day, they go after his darling lute!

Such abuse she has suffered during his adventures, and yet she holds herself proud still, her scratches a badge of honour as she hums under his fingers and his alone. It would be easier to part with her during such outrage he knows, to wield her as Geralt does his sword and swing her overhead, bring her down on some frothing lout's skull. But such violence is not the way of this bard, no, not when his silver tongue still wags in his mouth, thank you very much.

But back to Geralt! Yes, his face is a touch... how to say... unique to his profession. He might have been called handsome once, but ravaged by tooth and claw he's more of a rugged attraction now. A _wild_ one, the scars torn across his face reminders of the animal prowling under his skin (Jaskier doesn't call him White _Wolf_ for nothing, he will have you know). His eyes are an odd colour - they remind Jaskier of those shiny little baubles sometimes removed from the earth, scattered around the perfumed lairs of fortune-tellers and witches and a fair few wily women versed in the arts of charm and untruths. _Citrine_ , yes, they do have that _gleam_ about them, that _luster_. Of course there are some who dare to say Geralt's eyes look the colour of piss and, well! Jaskier simply _cannot_ restrain himself from giving them a piece of his mind for such an insult. How _dare_ they compare the golden, buttery warmth of sunlight on a summer day to _piss,_ have they no culture beyond the fumes they find up their own arse?!

(Yes, he was chased from _that_ particular tavern, but he doesn't lament the loss).

And his teeth! Never let it be said Geralt has a winning smile, even Jaskier will not lie about that. See, his teeth lean a tad too far on the _sharp_ side to set one's mind at ease when under the full brunt of the Witcher's scrutiny. That's not to say he has fangs, he doesn't, but... well. The pointy teeth are a bit pointer than one might consider normal, you see, and the bottom set are uneven in their arrangement. It lends them quite the jagged appearance and with the number of times Jaskier's seen Geralt's mouth set in a snarling slash with blood smeared all over it like war paint... well. A deadly bite the Witcher doesn't have, but that doesn't mean he refrains from using it all the same.

He's a tall fellow, Geralt. More than capable of _looming_ and casting a very large shadow, oh yes. He would know, see, he's had the Witcher leaning over his shoulder before, peering down at his work and following the dance of his quill as he does it. Not that he provided _commentary_ on his latest composition, or even so much as a snort of derision. Jaskier would have preferred that to the silence, honestly, but you take what you can get with this man. And he's built like an ox. With the quick, silent feet of a cat on the hunt - he even has the slinking down to a fine art. One would think a man of such stature would make some noise, or that all that leather would give a creak of protest when forced to strain across his bulk, but alas, there has been many an upset drink or upended candle (right on his parchment!) when he's spoken seemingly from thin air, right behind him or, in some cases, when he _looms_. He really is quite good at it. He can drain the blood from a farmer's face in the time it takes Jaskier to blink and draw breath for another flurry of finely arranged insults. He can make the most stern of the nursemaids quiver in her skirts and forget the words she teaches her charges. And he can give Jaskier quite the fright and have his poor little heart doing triple its rhythm.

His hands! Oh, he could whisper sweet poems of Geralt's hands for _days_. Have you ever seen hands so _large?_ So _capable?_ So _perfect_ to wield a sword, the perfect bridge between his arms and the blade? They're a killer's hands, yes, they've seen their fair share of blood. And scars. And unspeakable, filthy things dredged up from the guts of monsters. They've snapped bone and bruised flesh and stolen the air from unwary lungs and, of course, the sighs of many a lover with some expert use of those _fingers_. Jaskier reckons those fingers could work their magic on a lute and charm an entire town into depositing every last coin into Geralt's pouch, but he's not a man used to the finer things in life. Apparently (Jaskier has his doubts, and the memory of that lovely bottom cupped in his oiled hands, finer things in life _indeed_ , oh, he should have perished on the spot from sheer delight).

And of course, how can he mention those wonderful hands without _also_ tying in the strength within them, beyond them, flowing through the muscles of his arms and the broad span of his shoulders and through the rest of his body, rooting him in place? He might not be as strong as some of the monsters he wrestles with - not that he's so foolish as to rely on brute strength alone in the first place - but he's certainly made of sturdier stuff than the average man! It's something to do with all the Witcher-y business, Jaskier's _certain_ of it, but any attempt at prying such secrets from him shuts down conversation faster than the arrow flies. It's a sorry day indeed when _Roach_ is more inclined to chatter than her master, and more verbose in her equine sounds while she's at it, but then Jaskier doesn't require inside knowledge in order to _appreciate_ the flex of muscle under him when he's hoisted into those arms (safe, secure, pressed ever so close to such a magnificent chest even hidden by armour as it is) or over a shoulder (which is not as comfortable as one might imagine when said shoulder belongs to a man carved from marble or mountain), or carried on Geralt's back like a child while he gibbers absolute _nonsense_ in the Witcher's ear after one too many drinks.

Ah, on that thought! Geralt is a _patient_ man, and he will not have anyone say otherwise!

Yet for all that his dear friend (and yes, they _are_ friends, Jaskier will insist upon it until the day he dies with just as much ferocity as Geralt denies it) is, by all reckoning, a _dangerous_ man... he is also gentle. _Merciful_. Helpful. How many times has he gone to the aid of families torn apart by war, by the creatures lurking in darkness and shadow, by poverty? How many times has he given a quick, clean death to an animal doomed to hours, or even _days_ , of needless suffering? How many times has he come to _Jaskier's_ aid against fellow man and monster alike, with no expectation for coin, that furrowed brow of his speaking volumes of his silent concern? How softly he _croons_ to Roach when she's spooked, or grumpy, or clomping her hooves with impatience. How he'll take a moment to crouch down and run his fingers along the sleek, arched back of a _mrrp_ ing cat. How he speaks in quiet tones to Ciri when the lass comes awake from a nightmare, a wild fear in the darting of her eyes, settling his own blanket round her shoulders and allowing her rest against his side where it is, arguably, safest. How he'll fix Jaskier with that piercing, heavy stare of his, and heave a mighty sigh, and hold his other arm high in silent offer and of course Jaskier accepts. Only a fool dropped on their head at birth would _refuse_.

All of this anyone could learn if they set their mind to it, if they spent months by his side as Jaskier has. But there is knowledge for Jaskier and Jaskier alone, when it comes to Geralt of Rivia. The kind of knowledge one learns about another in the dead of night and under silk sheets (or furs, or just rolling around in the hay of a farmer's barn, waking to the incensed shrieking of the hired help) and between the spread of glorious, too-tense thighs. What sounds he can coax from the Witcher's throat - _his_ Witcher's throat - when he curls his fingers in the moonspun silk of his hair (provided he's had his way with it in a nice warm bath first, otherwise it's a hideous, coarse riot) and tugs _just so_ to expose his neck to the press and nip of teeth... those are a secret he'll share with no-one.


End file.
